For six months, I watched him from inside my car. Every Saturday at exactly 2 PM, the same biker rode his Harley into the cemetery, parked beneath the old oak tree, and walked straight to Emily’s headstone. He would sit beside her grave for exactly one hour. He never brought flowers, left notes, or spoke loudly enough for me to hear.
At first, I assumed he had mistaken her grave. But he returned the following Saturday, and the one after that. Week after week, this complete stranger grieved for my wife as though she had once been part of his life. Emily had died fourteen months earlier from breast cancer at just forty-three. We had been married for twenty years and had two children.
